Perilous Journeys. The Shadow over Rhudaur Part III

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Belzagar’s Townhouse, Cameth Brin. Morning, November 1
Written by Angmar
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"Lord Belzagar, I think that monotony will be the death of you quicker than anything," quipped Authon as he glanced out the window and looked at the mews across the courtyard. Two youths were making their morning rounds to feed the pigeons. As Lord Belzagar followed Authon's gaze, he cursed softly.

"There will be none of our little friends with messages this day, or for many days to come," Belzagar said angrily. "The Witch has seen to that!"

"My lord, there is nothing we can do about that," Authon shrugged and settled back in his chair. He sipped his goblet of brandy, noticing that his master had scarcely touched his own drink. As was their custom during their morning meetings, the spy master and his chief assistant sat in their comfortable chairs around the blazing fireplace in Belzagar's private chambers.

"Nothing," Belzagar echoed. "Nothing! In one move, Princess Gimilbeth effectively destroyed the messenger system that took Lord Alassar and others, equally devoted, years to develop! Now messengers must travel by foot or horseback from our agents in the field and from our brutes in the Trollshaws! This can take days, while with the pigeons, sometime it was only a matter of mere hours!"

Authon was becoming concerned about his master. Five days before, one of Princess Gimilbeth's falcons had brought down a bird with a message from the Trollshaws. Since then, Belzagar had been like a man who feared that his next breath would be his last. Authon had been told that his master had difficulty sleeping; his appetite had decreased to the point where he ate very little but drank much more than was his custom; and since the incident of the capture of the messenger pigeon, none of the servants had reported that Belzagar's mistress had visited him, nor had he visited her.

"Too dangerous for the poor dear now with the trouble and all," one of the laundresses had reported to the butcher's delivery boy. "I do not think we will see the lady here for a while, and such a shame! They say she is very much in love with him."

For years, Authon had employed agents in Lord Belzagar's household who kept Authon apprised of his own master's actions. Authon had no doubt that Belzagar had spies in his own household. He would expect nothing less of the spymaster. Of course, neither one ever mentioned the possibility to the other of such a thing going on right beneath their noses.

"My lord," Authon said, "you are taking this all out of proportion. We are not under house arrest, and not once has either of us been questioned. There has been scarcely a break - other than the messages by pigeon - in our communications. Whatever happens in Rhudaur - or Cardolain or Arthedain for that matter - sooner or later, we will receive a full account of it from one of our agents. We know everything that happens in court and the city and the countryside. You fret too much, my lord. You should try to relax."

"I am relaxed, damn it!" Belzagar fairly shouted. "My only problem is that I have trouble sleeping at night. I think it must be indigestion, and I am concocting a potion that will soon remedy that. My unsettled stomach causes me to have dreams - dreams - dreams!"

"My lord, what sort of dreams? Perhaps by the telling of them, you will make them go away," Authon suggested, far more interested than he would admit.

"Authon, I am sure that you will be amused," Belzagar replied with ice in his voice. "You and I are upon a great stage in the center of the public square here in Cameth Brin and an enormous crowd is screaming for our blood. There is a massive brute dressed all in black, a hood over his head, and he holds a great axe in his hands! How the edge seems to have been honed, for it gleams wickedly! Both you and I are kneeling with our heads on the axeman's chopping block. I hear the axe as it whistles through the air and then comes down - swish... chop!" He made a sliding movement with his hand. "And your head rolls off your neck, down off the block, across the executioner's stage, and into the crowd! The crowd stills in a hush, and then they cheer, I tell you! They cheer! They will not stop cheering, and the cheers rise up as a great roar like the ocean! The image is horrible! The axeman then turns to me..."

Authon quietly sipped his brandy as he listened to his master's dream. It would be rude to ask what happened next, so he waited until Belzagar volunteered. A long moan escaped Belzagar's lips as he exhaled, and his hand trembled slightly as he reached for his crystal brandy goblet. "You want to know what happened, do you not?" he hissed out. "I will tell you! You are in it right with me! Then my head was severed and my spirit left the body but did not find peace in Mandos. Instead, both of us wandered until we came to a great dark fortress, and evil spectres came out and dragged us inside. There we were forced to stay forever, in eternal slavery to Melkor the Potent. He, too, laughed when he saw us. They all laughed!"

"My lord, this was nothing but a dream and has no significance." Though the dream made Authon apprehensive, he tried to minimize its dread portent. "Forgive me for suggesting this, but perhaps you are turning too much to the poppy potions to bring you sleep. Even those of us who are adept at drugs and spells can sometimes make mistakes. I suggest you cut the dosage down gradually until the dreams stop."

"Only a dream, only a dream. Perhaps you are right. I know what kind of dreams the sleeping draughts can induce." Lord Belzagar rose to his feet, seeming suddenly to have tired of the topic. "Authon, I feel a sudden summons to go riding on the road northeast of the Long Waterfall. Hurry now! We must go to the stable and tell the grooms to saddle our horses!"

***

Soon the two men's horses were cantering over the bridge near the Long Waterfall. A half mile further ahead, they halted their mounts, and sure enough as Belzagar had expected, dropping down from the heavens, was Honalnut the raven.

"His Majesty's messenger!" Authon exclaimed, looking at his master with new respect. "Such a thing has never happened before! They have always gone to your townhouse, but never has one come to you directly like this."

"I knew it would be so now and will be so," Belzagar murmured, a strange new light gleaming in his eyes. "I heard His Majesty's voice. He spoke to me in my mind, and he has promised to speak to me again! I am his man!"


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November 1, 1347. Broggha's Camp
Written by Angmar
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"Did you ever see anything like that in all your life, Captain Griss!" Heggr exclaimed enthusiastically as Princess Gimilbeth's entourage passed by the rude shack where the two men were lounging. Spitting a long stream of tobacco juice out of the side of his mouth, he laughed in amusement as the brown liquid narrowly missed a yellow cur nosing amongst the garbage at the side of the shack.

"Aye, truly impressive, but it surely did not compare with the Jarl's triumphal entry into Cameth Brin last month. No doubt, much to the old king's chagrin, that event will be given a page to itself in the royal history," Griss remarked waggishly. After watching the end of Princess Gimilbeth's procession pass out of sight, Griss drew on his long-stemmed clay pipe. A small vagrant breeze pulled the hazy smoke towards the east.

"Maybe our names will be recorded. Do you think so, Captain?" Heggr asked after he had spat the depleted plug of tobacco from his mouth and prepared another chew from his tobacco pouch.

"Who knows?" Griss shrugged. "Why don't you ever smoke the pipeweed instead of chewing it?" Captain Griss' eyebrows wrinkled in a disapproving look. "I don't know how you can tolerate the taste of the strong stuff in your mouth."

"Captain, chewing the pipeweed sometimes eases the pain in my aching teeth, or maybe it just takes my mind off the misery." Heggr looked disappointed at Griss' nonchalant dismissal of a question he considered important. "Wouldn't you like to have your name written down in a great volume of history as being someone who did something important?" Heggr looked at Griss hopefully.

Griss laughed. "People like high and mighty Princess Gimilbeth get their names in history books, not rogues like us. Don't tax your mind on it anymore, Heggr. We have more important things to do than stand here. We need to be getting to the Jarl's keep. He will want a full report of the Princess' departure."

***

Retrieving their horses from where they had been tied behind the shack, the two men were quickly mounted and on their way to Broggha's estate. Rolling the new cud of tobacco in his mouth, Heggr was silent, a mournful expression on his homely face.

"Why so glum, Heggr?" Griss asked without much interest.

"Nothing," he spat to the side. "Only I was hoping there would be a little time to stop at the Hare and Thistle. I was hoping to see Fainwen."

"Heggr, that is impossible. You shouldn't even ask! The tavern is in the opposite direction from the Jarl's keep. You can always ride over and see her tonight. What's so important that you should want to see her now?" Griss replied disdainfully. He had never been able to understand Heggr's infatuation with the plump barmaid, who, while her face was pretty enough, was a little too old and well-used for his tastes.

"You see, Captain, it's like this. She's grown pretty fond of me, and... well, I am somewhat fond of her. You remember during the procession that one of the boys who work at the inn came up to me and whispered into my ear?" Heggr seemed almost shy.

"Yes, I remember that. What was it all about?" Griss smiled as their horses trotted into the courtyard of Broggha's hall.

"Well, he's Fainwen's nephew..."

"Aye, I know that," Griss replied as the two men dismounted and turned their horses' reins over to the waiting grooms. "I suppose the lad was delivering an important message from your lady love."

"Aye, Captain Griss," Heggr replied as he followed Griss into the corridor that led to Broggha's private chamber.

"Well, out with it, man!" Griss growled irritably as the guard ushered them into the warm confines of the audience chamber. "What does she want? Another present, I suppose?"

"Well, sir, if what she thinks is true, maybe I have given her present enough as it is." Stammering, Heggr's face flamed crimson.

"You old dog!" Captain Griss slapped him hard across the shoulders. "You've gotten the wench with child! Are you sure it's even yours?"

Heggr had not been prepared for the enthusiastic response, and the wind was almost knocked out of him. Recovering quickly, he whispered to the captain. "Aye, it's mine, or at least I think it's mine."

"Be quiet now," Griss muttered. "The Jarl is looking at us!"

A tankard of ale in his hand, the red-haired giant sat alone, attended only by one trusted servant. The Jarl nodded when they drew near to him. "Take seats," he ordered, "and tell me everything that happened."

Griss inclined his head respectfully before he began. "Princess Gimilbeth, full of her usual arrogance, rode at the head of her lackies, with that supercilious, smirking Captain Merendil coming along right behind her like a trained dog." Griss paused as the serving boy set tankards of ale on the table beside Heggr and him.

"Drink, men," Broggha's booming voice seemed far too loud for the moderate-sized room. "The draughts will take the chill from your bones." Nodding, the two men smiled their gratitude to him. "And the coffin of Nauremir? I trust it was with the procession?" He beamed a broad, pleased grin.

"Yes, my lord Broggha, the dog's coffin was right there," Griss replied after wiping the froth off his lips with the back of his hand.

"Everything is going according to His Majesty's plan. Won't the lady be surprised when she discovers that there will be a little welcoming party for her, or should we say a little surprise party?" Broggha chortled. "She and her party will be observed every step of the way. The marvel of it is that none of them will ever suspect a thing until it is far too late for them to do anything about it! His Majesty thinks of everything!"

Broggha's eyes had begun to take on that strange gleam which made Griss feel slightly uncomfortable. The Jarl's eyes had never appeared that way before the Great Lord had visited them back in September. Always when dealing with the emissaries from the North in the past, the Jarl had been visited by underlings. Griss wondered if it had been the King himself who had made an appearance. Whoever the lord was who visited them, he made an overpowering impression upon Griss and Broggha.

Heggr coughed uncertainly and Griss turned to look at him. Heggr stared at him in a strange way for a moment and then looked away. A shiver rippled down his spine when Heggr realized that the expression upon Griss' face was just as wild and mad as the one which was on Jarl Broggha himself!


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Ford of Bruinen, November 1, 1347
Written by Serenoli
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Rain fell steadily on the ground, a rough, loud, fierce rain, driven hither and thither by the wind, so that sometimes Gere was drenched by it, and sometimes the rain hardly touched her. They had camped under a grove of large trees, hoping for some shelter from the storm, but it hardly helped. It had come upon them suddenly, without warning, in the early hours of the morning from the North, and it did not look like the storm was about to let up soon. They had waited almost half the morning, and maybe they should start thinking about moving on again. And yet none of them were eager to cross the Ford in this weather...

Behind her were a few ponies, holding as much of their belongings as they could not carry themselves. Huddled in small groups under the tree, whispering in worried voices and looking up at the grey sky were thirty-two dwarves. They all looked as impatient as she felt... she did not like waiting here, so close to Rivendell. With a slight shiver, she remembered the Elf they had met at the High Pass a few days ago. She had been willing to consider him with an open mind, to view him without prejudice, the first Elf she had ever met, and he had confirmed everything bad she had ever heard about elves, and added some more. Gere wasn't sure what it was about him - not his looks, certainly, for he was tall and fair to look upon, and his clothes were sober, and the carved knife at his waist and his harp were both objects of beauty.

It was something else. It was the fear that had preceded him, that tinge of fear before he had even come into their view. It was the way he had looked past her disguise, and seemed to know that she was a dwarf-woman, and the way he had licked his lips ever so slightly. If the others hadn't been with her, if she had been alone, she was certain she would have fled from that look. And the way he sneered as he passed them, and ... well, maybe she was prejudiced, for listed like that, it really wasn't all that much. All the same, she didn't like Elves, and she did not wish to meet more of them.

The wind died down suddenly; the rain trickled to a halt slowly. The dwarves gathered themselves up, and once more set out on the road, the leader, Hroim, setting the pace with his long strides, followed by the others. His son, Truin, fell into pace beside Gere. He was younger than her by a few years, but he had as forceful a personality as his father.

"You look troubled," he began without preamble. "We'll reach the others in time, don't worry."

"I wasn't worried. We have three weeks before we need to be in Tharbad, after all. I was thinking I'll be glad to move on, and not meet any more Elves, and also I wish I knew what awaits us in Tharbad."

"And you wish we were back home. As you always do." He frowned. "Gere, we haven't had a home for the last two years; if you go back, all you'll find are the ruins the goblins made of it."

"I know that. All the same, I do not enjoy all this wandering around, the road is hardly a place to sleep in, and I wish that we had never decided to split the tribe up. I haven't seen my parents in so long."

"With any luck, three weeks from now, we'll be meeting your parents again, we'll find a good place to settle in near Tharbad, and you will be able to stop worrying so much! You're too young to frown as much as you do. You'll be getting all wrinkled soon!" he added mischievously.

"I may not be as young as you, baby Truin, but I can still heft that axe of mine pretty well!" She tried to look threatening, but failed at the sight of his dismal face - he hated being called a baby - and burst out laughing instead. When he joined her a few moments later, she did feel cheered. The Ford was in sight, they would be over the Bruinen soon enough, and Truin was right, they would be reuniting with the others in less than a month. There was nothing to worry about.... yet.